Sensory
by Sonya Omun
Summary: Soubi would never consider himself to be sensitive. Sound, smell, sight, taste, touch; five separate vignettes revolving around one of the five senses. Complete.
1. Sound

**MUTING MORTAR  
**

**Or: Sound**

It always starts with two measured knocks sounding hollowly from his wooden office door.

Ritsu doesn't bother to call to enter as the door already opens with a click and the pale boy steps inside.

He sits back in his chair, relishing the sounds as though listening to a favourite piece of music. Two knocks, the click of the door, soft footfalls. It amalgamates into a rhythm with which Ritsu is intimately familiar.

Silence comes down on the room, fluttery at first, but it solidifies around Ritsu, settling into a firm foundation as the only sound becomes the rustle of clothing as Soubi slips off his shirt and folds it neatly.

Once shirtless, Soubi waits. Ritsu allows the silence to strengthen for a moment, seeping to every corner of his office like a syrup, then rises and heads to the cabinet mounted to the wall.

The leather of the whip is smooth and supple in his hand and creaks in greeting as Ritsu clenches and unclenches his hand around the auburn handle.

Ritsu turns to find Soubi in position, hands propped up against the wall, head bowed low, the only movement the occasional twitch of his cat ears beneath his hair.

The tip of the whip hits the floor with a tap and gives a low sigh of leather against wood with every step as Ritsu moves forward.

Soubi's regulated breathing is just audible as Ritsu stands behind him, watching a scar partly running down Soubi's side stretch with every intake.

The silence intensifies, a physical force pushing Ritsu onward trough the wonderful pressure building in his ears.

Leather creaking as Ritsu pulls his hand back is Soubi's cue and his breathing hitches once as the tightens his muscles.

The whip gives a sharp hiss before cracking on Soubi's back, drawing a welt across his shoulder blade. It takes a few seconds before the parted skin starts bleeding, as though Soubi's body has trouble keeping up. No sound escapes Soubi.

Ritsu listens closely as he lets the tip of the whip drag across the floor again to ready for the next blow. He doesn't miss the fact that Soubi's breathing quickens fractionally.

The whip snaps again, a wet slap as the leather bites into Soubi's lower back. Soubi's body lurches from the force of the impact, but he remains mute.

Elation steadily builds in Ritsu with every strike that brings only silence and he allows himself to fall into a rhythm, dragging the tip across the floor before cracking the whip again.

Hiss, crack, drag.

Hiss, crack, drag.

The sound of Ritsu's own laboured breathing, underscored by Soubi's soft panting, becomes a chorus to the music of the lash.

Hiss, crack, drag.

Hiss, crack, drag.

Blood coats Soubi's back, staining his pants, but Ritsu doesn't worry. Soubi had needed no prompting to start wearing black clothes, better to hide the fabric being wet with blood. One of the reasons Ritsu knew he had chosen well with the blonde child.

Hiss, crack, drag.

Hiss, crack.

Ritsu lowers his arm, breathing heavily through his nose, letting the coils of the whip patter to the floor at his feet before dropping the handle with a thud. He is pleased to find Soubi's breathing is already controlled again as he steadies himself.

Ritsu pushes his glasses further onto his nose as he considers Soubi. The blood from the first lashes already slowing into congealed blobs as Soubi remains in position, waiting for an order, seemingly relaxed. The only indication of the contrary are Soubi's ears and tail, both pressed low.

The two steps towards Soubi sound offensively loud in the pronounced silence.

Ritsu reaches out and runs his finger over one of the silky edges of Soubi's feline ear. He is rewarded with a tiny gasp, airy, barely more than a quick intake of breath. He rubs the ear more firmly between his fingers and Soubi stiffens almost imperceptibly, his tail twitching and pulling closer to his leg.

'These,' Ritsu gives a tiny tug on Soubi's ear, 'and this,' a curt whimper is muffled, but not hidden by Soubi's clenched teeth and he most assuredly shudders as Ritsu's hand suddenly closes around his tail, 'betray you,' Ritsu finishes, voice low and syllabic.

Ritsu has always favoured Soubi for his beautiful silence.

'I can help you with that.'

But exceptions can be made.

**A/N: I will update once a week. **

**Next part: Smell. Soubi finds a moment of indulgence. **

**Comments and constructive criticism are very much appreciated. Follow the homepage link in my profile for more.  
**


	2. Smell

**RESIDUALLY YOURS**

**Or: Smell**

I go back to the bed the moment you leave.

A little slower than usual, because I'm still sore, but I'm grateful for the stiffness in my limbs. Sleeping on the floor is nothing if it allows me to be close to you.

The dry scent of dust tickling through my nose awoke me as the early streaks of sunlight had found me on the floor next to my own bed. I had been sure I was dreaming as I listened to the soft sound of your breathing.

Now, alone again, my room feels empty and awkward, as though it was never mine. Everything I am and own belongs to you, but this was the first time you appropriated my apartment for yourself.

I was not so brazen as to hope you would spend the night when you said you needed to use my shower last night. I didn't hope for anything, really, apart from getting away from the stench.

You had ordered me to be vicious, to obliterate the pair, but I didn't anticipate my final lightning spell to so utterly decimate the Fighter's defences.

The scent of charred and smouldering flesh weighed down the gentle breeze, making my stomach churn. Blood running from my nose partly covered the smell with salty copper, but it wasn't enough.

I dared to glance over at you, but you remained stoic, even though I knew you could taste the tangy air in the back of your throat, like I could, the smell of greasy smoke.

You took a lengthy shower when we returned to my place, while I changed my clothes. I held a clean shirt to my face and inhaled deeply, trying to supplant the smell of fire and death with the breezily floral smell of generic laundry detergent.

You ordered me to take a shower too, after you were done and I obeyed, bringing another change of clothes.

The heavy steam, moist and smelling of artificial cherry blossom from my shampoo, drove all tension away as I scrubbed myself clean of the fine film of putrid violence still clinging to my skin.

All that tension promptly returned when I exited the bathroom and found you lying in my bed. Your bare shoulders the only part of you visible from beneath the white sheets.

'It's late,' you said and I quickly cast down my eyes to stop myself from staring, 'I will stay the night.'

I barely remembered how to breathe.

'Sleep on the couch,' you turned to your side, away from me and my treacherous eyes were already roving what I could see of your finely toned shoulders, 'or the floor. I don't care.'

And that was that. I lowered myself to the floor next to the bed with one of the couch cushions and settled. I barely slept, wanting to listen to every rustle of movement, every quiet sigh you made, determinedly ignoring the persistent pressure between my legs. I fell asleep counting your breaths.

But now my bed is empty.

I stare down at it with a sense of awe, taking in the sight of the crumpled linen, hardly daring to believe whose body occupied this bed not half an hour ago.

I throw myself face first into the pillow and breathe. I recognise my own shampoo, you must have used it last night, and breathe again. Deeper.

It's there, what I'm looking for, beneath it all. That scent that is so hard to grasp. A whiff that is so familiar for the smallest moment before it is gone, like trying to catch a single drop of water in an ocean with my bare hands. It takes me back to your hands on my throat as you marked me with your name, the most you have ever touched me, but this time without the overbearing scent of blood, sticky in the inside of my nose and throat.

Breathing deeply, I desperately try to memorise the fleeting, ephemeral scent that is my Sacrifice, my master, so undeniably _you._

Time passes, I don't know how much, as I surround myself in the memory of you. Pressing my cheek to the mattress and pretending I can still feel your warmth.

As much as I want to keep the bed just as it is now, never sleeping in it again lest I soil the memory of you, I know I can't.

With a twinge of regret I begin to strip the linen off the bed to wash. It's just a twinge, though.

It may have taken my assertion that it was new and my swearing to the fact that I have never worn it, but you acquiesced to the necessity of borrowing a clean shirt.

I smile as I close the washing machine. How will that smell when you return it to me?

**A/N: This was a real challenge to write and somehow only worked by setting it in the second perspective. **

**Next week: Sight. Seimei doesn't like what he sees when he looks at Soubi.  
**

**Comments, questions, critiques; it's all welcome!**


	3. Sight

**TAINTED PERIWINKLE**

**Or: Sight**

The long lane they walk down is deserted, swept clean by the gusts of strong wind that roll through in waves, like the tide of the tempest. Large oaks and small poplars intermittently dot each side of the road. The large trees haughtily dip their heads in passing acknowledgement, while the smaller stems thrust out their branches in grand gestures, nearly bending double in the gale to bow and scrape as the two figures walk by.

The grey of the pavement is framed with orange, red and brown from the scattered leaves, whose curled bodies shine wetly.

Soubi walks two paces behind him. Hearing the footfalls when the wind momentarily calms, Seimei can imagine the swish of his plumb coloured coat, its fur trimmed edges twitching in the wind.

Seimei keeps his pace unhurried, but brisk, uncaring if Soubi has trouble keeping up with the two long gashes down his side that he sustained during the spell battle.

They round the last corner into another empty street. Seimei can already see Soubi's apartment building against the backdrop of a chaotically stormy sky, all shades of grey thrashed together like a spilt pallet of monochromatic paint.

It's barely warmer inside the apartment than outside in the chilled autumn wind.

Seimei surveys the bare room, though nothing ever changes. The television and dining table look barely used and even the white sheets pulled tightly around the double bed look impersonal, neutral.

The only part of the room that looks lived is Soubi's easel, by the window, turned to catch as much of the low light as the darker days would give.

Brushes lay sprawled around the legs of the easel, spindly bodies with heads of hair varying from wildly peeking in every direction to slicked into a precise point. There were several jars of water, all muddled with colour from a different part of the spectrum, as not to tarnish a fresh dollop of paint.

Soubi is still standing by the door, not moving further into his own residence while Seimei looks around.

'Soubi,' Seimei addresses his Fighter without turning to look at him, 'why didn't you defend against Soundless' last attack?'

The question sounds casual, amiable even, but the air between the two men tightens with tension.

'Their Fighter had powerful defensive spells,' Soubi's voice is clear and calm.

Something beckons Semei's wandering gaze and he focuses on two black dots of dried paint on the wooden floor as Soubi continues.

'I timed my attack to coincide with his own, to catch him off guard.'

A tendril of sickly anger, darker than the two small blots of saturated colour, uncoils somewhere within Seimei, swiping out and he snaps around to face Soubi, mouth already open for rebuke.

The sight that greets him makes all words die down before they start to come.

I didn't prepare myself, he manages to think before even all thought of words is driven from him.

Seimei's gaze meets Soubi's. The usually meek look – the times Soubi looks at him at all – is replaced by one that's brightly attentive, pale eyes still shining with power from their battle.

Something clenches in Seimei's chest before spreading lower and turning into a fluttering sensation as he stares at Soubi.

Those eyes. Blue and grey diluted until mixing into delicate periwinkle, stretching inward to such depths as to make Seimei want to dive into those dual pools to see how far down the colour reaches.

Seimei is suddenly struck by the thought of how perfect Soubi's eyes match with the dirty blonde of his long hair, still tousled from the blasts of wind outside.

Soubi is staring back at him, the ghost of a frown creasing the bridge of his nose. When he speaks, a part of Seimei – suddenly so distant and hard to reach – detects a tremor in that otherwise steady voice.

'Seimei?'

The soft tone, the small movements of pale lips somewhere below the blue, below those eyes, snaps reality back into place, reminding Seimei who – what – it is that looks back at him.

Soubi. Blank Soubi. Scarred Soubi. Stained, dirty, soiled Soubi.

The back of Seimei's hand connecting with the his right cheek snaps Soubi's head to the side, giving Seimei some much needed reprieve. This time he is ready for it when Soubi rights himself.

Soubi's eyes meet his briefly and Seimei steels himself against the familiarly unfamiliar sensation coursing through him before he decisively crushes it. Soubi lowers his gaze.

The mark blossoming on Soubi's cheekbone, initial red quickly swelling into purple, is almost as pleasing as the pale orbs of blue.

No, Seimei tells himself, more pleasing.

'Beloved's Fighter does not need to catch his opponent off guard,' Seimei explains coldly, face pulled into what he knew to be a subtly derisive sneer.

'Understood,' Soubi's voice is once again steady and demure as he lifts his eyes.

It's harder, this time, for Seimei to quash the feelings that race through him.

'Don't look at me.'

Seimei pretends his voice doesn't turn suddenly harsh, doesn't sound breathless. His heart settles as the delicate, tainted periwinkle is turned away again.

'Yes, Beloved.'

**A/N: Next week: Taste. Ritsuka has yet to grasp his own appetites.  
**

**All comments welcome!**


	4. Taste

**BON APPETENCE**

**Or: Taste**

'I'll cook for you.'

The statement had been accompanied by such a confident, honest smile that I spluttered my agreement without thinking about it and promptly sat down at the table.

Now I'm not so sure anymore. I try not to fidget, but as I focus on keeping my restless tail still, my ears twitch at the sounds coming from the open kitchen, running water and the rhythmic taps of a knife on a chopping board.

Unease mounting, I try to distract myself by looking around Soubi's apartment, but my stomach begins to twist into its wonted knot at the prospect of a shared meal. The bitter silence while eyes follow my every movement, picking apart every bite I take without tasting in judgement. I'm always found guilty.

Only yesterday I foolishly ate some cucumber with sakekasu, having learned from Yuiko to appreciate the pickle salt undercut with the freshness of cucumber.

I forgot Ritsuka doesn't like cucumber.

A pot clangs loudly in the kitchen and I flinch, my stomach lurching. My mouth goes dry, making my tongue feel sticky and cumbersome and leaving a sour taste.

Just as I consider leaving, fleeing, as I always do when the cooking smells reach me, Soubi emerges carrying two dinner bowls.

He stops, seeing me turned in my chair, ready to get away from the net threatening to close around me with the steaming food in Soubi's hands.

'Ritsuka?'

The word robs me of the strength to rise. It always does. I slide my knees back under the table. Ritsuka is ready to eat.

I can't wrench open my jaws for a response as the full bowl is placed before me on the tabletop with a soft 'there you go.'

I glance at the door once, but then Soubi sits down across from me and I'm trapped.

Forcing myself to really look at the food, I see it's full of a murky soup with brown shapes floating in it.

'What is it?'

My hand edges towards my spoon to stall looking up.

'Miso soup with okara and nameko mushrooms,' Soubi replies, his own spoon hitting the side of his ceramic bowl with a melodious clang. 'If you don't like it I can make you something else.'

I'm so surprised by his words that I forget I'm trying to avoid looking at him.

Soubi smiles at me before lifting his spoon and carefully wrapping his lips around it, still looking at me. I watch his throat move behind the usual bandages before I realise I'm staring and quickly look down to my own spoon.

The soup is thick and full as I drag my spoon through it, watching the bits of mushroom bump out of the way.

'Is there something else you would like me to make?'

I frown. I only know what Ritsuka likes.

But not really. I don't know how Ritsuka felt about okara, so I shake my head silently and sip from my spoon.

The okara, spiced, but with what I don't know, blends smoothly with the miso soup's dashi. The pieces of mushroom are small bursts of flavour as I chew through them and when I swallow I detect a hint of soy paste.

I look up at Soubi again and catch him returning his own gaze to his food, taking another slow mouthful that he holds for a moment before swallowing.

As I watch Soubi eat I find myself remembering the advice he once gave me, to train my tongue. I had always considered that to be one of the many things Soubi said only to embarrass me, but now I wonder if that's what he's doing with every careful bite.

I take another spoonful and try to focus on it as I slowly revolve the food in my mouth.

The added okara gives the soup a thicker body and a somewhat grainy texture, while, in contrast, the mushrooms are slimy and squishy.

Focussing on every bite, I continue eating, growing accustomed to the silence, only broken by the clinging of cutlery.

My bowl is completely empty when I look up again and I'm startled to find Soubi staring at me. He smiles as he rests his chin atop laced fingers.

'Did you like it?'

Again, this catches me by surprise. I hadn't really thought about it. It's hardly relevant, I think to myself, as long as I don't know if Ritsuka likes it, it's unsafe to eat.

Soubi is still smiling expectantly.

'Did you, Ritsuka?'

I look away with a shrug.

'Sure.'

I see him rise in my peripheral vision and he squats down besides me.

'Then I think you would want to eat it all.'

He reaches out and brushes the corner of my mouth. I must have been too engrossed in eating to notice the small piece of mushroom that now sticks to the tip of his finger and Soubi presents it to me.

I don't have time to start blushing, my lips wrap around his fingertip the moment I look into his eyes, smiling more that the obligatory quirk of his lips.

The taste of the mushroom dissipates quickly, leaving the taste of nicotine spiked salt of Soubi's skin. Together with something else, something that reminds of strong arm pulling me into a hug - - even when I tell him not to!

Soubi pulls back his finger and brushes my lower lip with his thumb, even though I'm sure there are no more stray bits of food.

'Thank you,' it comes out breather than I intended.

Soubi's eyes seem ignited, shimmering from a light within and my mouth goes dry again. This time, it tastes sweet and I wonder why I feel hungry again. A hunger that runs much deeper than the need for sustenance. A hunger that is reflected in the darkening of Soubi's periwinkle eyes as he speaks.

'You're welcome, Ritsuka. What would you like for desert?'

**A/N: Next week: the final part! Touch. Soubi is a creature forged from sensation.**

**I'm not quite finished with the next chapter yet and already it exceeds 1500 words, with many spaces for additions, so I shudder to think how long it will be when it's finished. I actually had to make a flow chart to figure out Soubi's line of reasoning. A flow chart! **

**Comments and critiques are very welcome.  
**


	5. Touch

**FORCE OF HAPTIC**

**Or: Touch**

'Pain is nothing.'

Ritsu droned the words as he drew the whip across Soubi's back, leaving a line of fire in its wake. The lash marks cooled to and incessant searing, a constant hum through his nerves that disrupted his thoughts. The blood that trickled across the raised skin between the welts brought Soubi closer to shuddering than the whip, the light tickling a jarring contrast with the bite of the leather.

'Grit you teeth and bare it.'

Darkness flecked the corners of Soubi's vision, making the butterflies in the display cases on the walls shift, appearing uncomfortable at what they were witnessing, even in the ignorance of death.

As always, the blinds had been lowered, blearing crests of sunlight tried to force their way through the cracks, but their light didn't dare creep across the floor to touch Soubi or his sensei.

'There is nothing you can't do for your Sacri-'

The last syllable was muffled by a rush of blood pounding in Soubi's ears as the whip landed diagonally across the small of his back, finding more purchase by wrapping around the contour of Soubi's hip and tore back with such force that Soubi's arms jerked into tension to keep his perch against the wall.

A sour cramp began to spread through the muscles in Soubi's thighs, making his leg quake with the effort of supporting his weight.

Pain is nothing. Soubi started to repeat the chant to himself, closing his eyes, as Ritsu fell into a silent rhythm.

His vision flared up with white lightning behind his closed eyelids with each impact, building in force. He tried to keep hold of the mantra, thinking of protecting his Sacrifice, obeying his Sacrifice, but every impact blanched his mind, making it increasingly difficult to retain the words and the jolts of absorbing the blows jumbled the fragile repetition to breaking. Soubi went empty, well and truly blank.

He was almost grateful for the hand fisted in his hair, silently ordering, filling him with place and purpose through the spasmodic cramping in Soubi's neck as he moved his head. The hairs pulling free from Soubi's scalp with burning pinpricks a welcome diversion from the knuckles scraping the top of Soubi's head.

No, pain was nothing. Preferable, in fact, Soubi learned, to some other things.

He lit a cigarette the moment he stepped from Ritsu's office, having long since lost the fear of being reprimanded for smoking inside the building.

He could feel the blood on his back eagerly pull in the fabric of his shirt, its silky texture like sandpaper clinging to the raw wounds. Soubi shifted his shoulders, once, in what he knew to be a useless attempt to alleviate the discomfort on his back, but the gesture calmed muscles still seized with the repressed quandary of fight, flight or freeze.

Soubi sauntered back to his dorm room, ungritting his teeth only to allow in the smoke from his cigarette, rolling the smoke over his tongue to welcome the taste of ash and tar.

Pain was nothing. There was nothing he couldn't do for his Sacrifice.

Except be good enough.

He had been taught, in abundance, that pain was nothing. But nowhere in his teachings had he been prepared for the opposite to also be true. Nothing was pain.

Seimei didn't touch him.

'What did you say?'

Soubi felt the air in his lungs reverberate with every beat of his heart slamming through his chest. He couldn't have looked up at Seimei if he'd wanted to, his body having gone rigid – though he remained perfectly postured- only the tips of Seimei's shoes, black, of course, visible as he kept his eyes trained on the floor.

A direct question had to be answered, even if it would earn him punishment. It was with this same reasoning that Soubi had made the suggestion. Or so he told himself. The air felt too thick to breathe, a physical component that was hard to shape into words as Soubi opened his mouth to speak and he forced his body to relax as doubt and self-loathing threatened to close his throat around the words.

'I can pick your brother up from school.'

That wasn't exactly what he'd said, but he did not dare repeat the name. There was no point, they both knew it.

The cutting sheen to Seimei's eyes left no doubt that Soubi's mistake would be rectified. An internal voice of accusation hissed it had been no mistake, but Soubi muffled it by clasping his own fingers tighter behind his back. It had to have been. A foolish slip of the tongue. Seimei's orders regarding his little brother had been quite clear.

Soubi tried not to feel disappointed when it started with a blow to his face. Just a fist colliding with the side of his head, the contact sudden and brief. With a dry thump, Soubi fell to one knee, the pain stabbed through his knee, coiling up and down, around his femur and shin, like a live wire, but the pain was insignificant.

Soubi willed himself to look up, to see the snarl twisting his master's features and his inside squirm violently, the look more painful to him than the slap he received.

He allowed his head to loll sideways from the force of the hit, feeling a punishing blush flare to life on his stinging cheek. Soubi shoved away the growing sense of gratitude and instead focused on the dark guilt staining his insides like an oil slick. He pulled the guilt deeper, tried to spread it further, to ignite the oil into a cleansing inferno. Deeper still, like grabbing a protruding blade and twisting it into his flesh.

He did not deserve to enjoy this. Seimei had ordered him never to speak of his brother. While the treacherous part of his mind whispered it was his duty to offer himself to his master, even if only in the capacity as babysitter; Soubi had known the effect of his words before speaking. And still spoke.

This was punishment. His only chance at redemption, small and partial though it may be.

A shudder threatened to wrack Soubi's frame as Seimei's hands closed around his throat, which was free from the usual bandages.

It was guilt, rather than lack of oxygen, that caused Soubi to flush red and it was for the same reason he pressed his knees together, even as he allowed himself to be unresistingly pushed to the floor.

Soubi desperately tried to block out all sensation, save that of the life being choked out of him. On the spasms of his midriff as a weight grew at Soubi's centre, pushing and pulling inward at the same time, threatening to implode him. An instinctual panic threatened to stir at the feeling of being trapped, the solid floor beneath him and his master's presence looming over him, which seemed to Soubi a more impermeable barrier than the wood to his back.

This was more than he deserved for his disobedience, his – the gurgling sound Soubi made was only meant as vitriol for his own inadequacy- purposeful disobedience.

Soubi knew he should confess, but he didn't remember the last time Seimei had touched him and feeling his master's skin on his; dry hands, cool to the touch, claiming him so firmly, fingers fitting snugly in the hollow below his jaw as his entire body screamed with the heavy ache of oxygen deprivation, brought Soubi close to rapture.

Reflex caused him to gasp and splutter when Seimei suddenly released him and stepped back, wiping his palms on his black jeans.

Soubi breathed deeply, a sharp pain suffusing his entire chest and the burning throb of his throat still remembering his master's touch.

It wasn't enough. The bruising that trailed a line of pain down the length of his throat as he swallowed and the light headedness that made it hard for his eyes to focus was not enough to make Soubi stop wanting.

Perhaps he was a masochist, like Kio always said – though Kio always said it with a broken disgust as he cleaned wounds Soubi could not reach. Soubi didn't like pain, as he always told Kio, but he craved it nontheless.

Soubi couldn't help the profound gratitude he felt when Seimei punished him.

The clean pain of the knife, cutting through Soubi's thoughts like a resounding note sung by the steel, high and clear, until the blade was removed and a note was sung elsewhere, different, but always long and perfectly in key.

It was a song Soubi understood. He had memorized it and all its possible variances. It was the only song he knew.

He didn't know the tune to Seimei's ennui.

The beats of silence brought Soubi off tempo as he received his only summons in days, only to sit quietly in the corner of Seimei's room, subversively watching him play video games or read a book.

Soubi could gracefully perform any dance of genuflection, but was left floundering when Seimei led the way to Soubi's apartment building, only to pass it without looking, giving no indication whether Soubi was to go inside or to follow.

Soubi would sometimes forget the last time Seimei had looked at him.

Tolerance of his silent presence was the highest he could hope for. Praise was never given. Victory was assumed. Only failure was dealt with.

What once seemed so simple, a path as straight and clear as the scars streaking his back, turned to confusion.

The prospect of punishment began to cause a current of excitement to course through him, bringing awareness of every part of his body, his clothes suddenly feeling heavy on his skin, their fine materials coarse and crude.

Cold waves of guilt would temper, but not quash, the excitement, causing Soubi's pale fingers to curl into fists at his own selfish desires.

Duality warred within him, desire and duty, need and submission, until Soubi's thoughts echoed, frenzied shouts inside his mind that produced no definable orders.

And Soubi would feel lost.

Without the pain, without the blood to draw the lines of the path he was to walk, Soubi's world blurred.

There was no pain, only sensation. It was his master's will tethering him to his place and purpose through skin and blood and sinew and sensation. No pain. Only sensation. Pain was nothing.

Seimei was Soubi's only reason for being. Without which he was left adrift in a white fog, almost as blank as he was.

Then- - Seimei- - His master- - Beloved died.

And- - everything- -

Stopped.

The hands stop.

Soubi is suddenly aware that the bedsheets he is lying on are clinging to his back, damp with sweat. He shifts his shoulders, once, but it alleviates no discomfort, the sheets sticking to his sweat slicked skin. The matrass beneath him is a glowing heat, feeling to have gathered warmth from a roaring fire rather than Soubi's body.

His heartbeat is pounds through his body with such force that Soubi is surprised it doesn't visibly shake him with each thump.

A chill wafting over his exposed chest makes goosebumps rise unbidden on Soubi's skin with a prickly shudder, running from his crown down to his ankles.

'Soubi,'

The soft voice inexorably draws open eyes Soubi doesn't remember closing.

Ritsuka is leaning over him, his unbuttoned shirt showing a strip of his slim chest, skin glowing with an amber hue from the small bedside lamp, the only source of light in the room.

One of Ritsuka's hands lays just beneath Soubi's collarbone and Soubi realises Ritsuka can feel the pounding of his heart. He tries to smile, but his muscles don't remember how to curve into their pleasant show of complacency and his lips just twitch.

Soubi's limbs feel tight, a sour current running through him, making his body ring with the impulse to move, to writhe, but Soubi fights is down.

Ritsuka is frowning now, still pressed to Soubi's side. The tip of his tongue is momentarily visible as it pulls a corner of his lip between his teeth. The heat against Soubi's back intensifies and pulses through him as he abruptly recalls tracing those velveteen lips with his own tongue, not to bite, like Ritsuka does now, but to soothe.

He fervently hopes Ritsuka will attribute the hoarse rasp of his voice to excitement as he speaks.

'Please, continue.'

Instead, Ritsuka pulls back from him and the chill that makes Soubi shudder this time is from within. The heat against his back, nigh unbearable moments ago, is all at once woefully inadequate to replace the warmth of Ritsuka's body against his.

Ritsuka sits back, clamping his hands together, doubly so by pressing them between his knees, as though trying to contain himself. Soubi raises himself slightly onto his elbows, the sheets half heartedly attempting to follow him before sliding back down wetly.

Ritsuka's voice is as small as the lowering pitch allows it to be these days.

'Did I do something wrong?'

Soubi's insides twist into knot upon knot and he has to swallow back the rising bile of self-loathing. The severe shaking of his hands prevents him from reaching out.

'Never, Ritsuka,' his soft voice rises in pitch in a way that is more felt in his throat than heard in his words, 'I am yours to do with as you please.'

At these words, Ritsuka presses his eyes shut, looking hurt and again the bile roils within Soubi, a bitterness in the back of his throat as he swallows laboriously.

There is only silence for a long moment before Ritsuka opens his eyes again to look at Soubi. It is something else entirely that stirs within Soubi as he searches Ritsuka's face for anger or, far more painful than any form of punishment, a detached look of contempt and finds neither.

He looks away before allowing himself to wonder what Ritsuka's expression does mean.

Shuffling on his knees across the bed, Ritsuka moves back to Soubi's side, who lowers himself again.

'Soubi,'

The hand on his chest, dry and warm to the touch, calls Soubi's gaze upward more that the sound of his name. Ritsuka's face is close to his; looking down at him with earnest tenderness, the ghost of a frown still creasing his brow.

'I don't want to do this _to_ you,' he says softly, emphasising the penultimate word, 'I want to do this _with_ you,' the emphasis this time is the gentle squeeze of his fingers as he leans in even closer.

The lithe hand on Soubi's chest feels like a magnet, attracting a force from deep inside of him to well up and press against his sternum.

'I'm sorry,' Soubi's own voice whispers before he realises and he casts down his eyes, only to be greeted by the sight of Ritsuka's chest, curtained by his open shirt, and looks back up, focusing on the wall over Ritsuka's shoulder instead.

'Don't apologise,' the gentle admonition murmured so close to his face makes Soubi cringe more than the whip or the knife have ever made him do and his eyes flash to Ritsuka's, apologising for his apology, but he says nothing.

Soft fingers are brought to Soubi's face and he can't stop the small sigh that escapes him as they begin to follow the contours of his face, ghosting across his jaw, tracing the line of his nose, caressing his lower lip.

'Look at me, Soubi,' there is a pleading tone in Ritsuka's voice.

Soubi looks up, finding Ritsuka's face, less rounded as he gets older, smiling down at him. Again he feels a torrent of pressure awaken in his chest, making him soar and swirl with _something._

'I want to touch you, Soubi,' only in Ritsuka can his darkening colour add to the sincerity of his words and Soubi feels a tremor run through them both.

Ritsuka leans in, mouth hovering over Soubi's and their breaths mingle, making it unclear whether it's Ritsuka or Soubi that breathes more harshly now. Or both.

'Without hurting you,' the words wrench a shuddering gasp from Soubi, soft, but unmistakable, given Ritsuka's proximity.

Soubi's feels his hand being carefully lifted by his wrist and Ritsuka presses it to his own chest, over his heart.

Every beat Soubi feels under his shaking fingers is like a jolt of electricity being, making his skin tingle. The pressure within Soubi expands, all encompassing, making it hard to breathe.

'Like you touch me.'

Soubi can taste the words as he closes the distance between their lips. He dares to move a hand to the back of Ritsuka's head and Ritsuka brushes his tongue across Soubi's lips in response, which immediately open.

The pressure in Soubi dissolves in a flurry of fluttering, like thousands of butterflies suddenly taking the air, as they press against each other, all senses aflame.

Pain is nothing. Nothing is pain. But there are also other sensations.

**A/N: The end of Sensory!  
Please forgive the slight delay in posting, this chapter has been giving me grief for weeks. I was having a lot of trouble with turning the concepts into tangible scenes. As may be apparent in the chapter; I was having the infamous 'show, don't tell' issues. **

**Constructive criticism would really be appreciated, especially on this chapter, because I've lost all sense of objectivity regarding this. **

**And finally: a big, BIG thanks to those who reviewed!  
**


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